


Tell My Love To Wreck It All

by halfsweet



Series: Parallel AU [13]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Arguing, M/M, Trust Issues, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 02:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfsweet/pseuds/halfsweet
Summary: Lost, Brendon doesn’t know what else to do to help Patrick and save their relationship.





	Tell My Love To Wreck It All

**Author's Note:**

> okay i went through 3 different versions of part 13. this is the original one. and there's a second one in patrick's pov about b's vacation in hawaii. and a third one in brendon's pov about the instagram comments but i...kinda procrastinated a lot the past month so i ended up with the original version (which would be uploaded anyway even if i posted the other two versions)
> 
> so. here you go. the (hopefully) much-awaited part 13 :)
> 
> (unedited)

Mornings have become awkward and tense for him; he can't remember when was the last time he was looking forward to it, waking up in the morning just so he can make breakfast for Patrick and fool around while his boyfriend is still sleepy.

Now mornings are just making breakfast for the sake of Patrick eating his meds.

But ever since he returned from the trip with Spencer and their friends, he finds himself both missing _and_ dreading their mornings together. He had fun at Hawaii, of course. He even went back on Instagram to post a picture of himself--and he sort of understands now how Patrick must have felt when his own ‘fans’ commented on his appearance.

He sighs as he places a plate of toast and butter on the counter for Patrick, none for himself. When he catches the questioning look Patrick shoots him, he shrugs. “I'm making myself something else. Eat up. Then take your pills.”

He turns around to the stove to whoop up some omelette, silence settling between them both except for the hissing sound of the pan. Normally he would hum a song, or even belt out anything that comes to his mind, but since when has things been normal for him lately?

He's just about to flip the omelette onto his plate when a sharp clink of a utensil hitting the ceramic plate pierces through the air.

“I'm not a kid.”

“What?” He blinks, now fully facing Patrick, who’s staring down at his half-empty plate.

“Stop treating me like I'm a kid.” Patrick states, firmer and louder this time. His brows are furrowed in the middle, his expression somewhere between neutral and annoyance.

He can only do nothing but gape, speechless and dumbfounded. Patrick gets annoyed, sure, but he pretends to most of the time. This time, Patrick’s not joking.

He closes his mouth and clears his throat. “I'm not. I’m not treating you like a kid.”

“It feels like you do all the time.”

“Oh.” His shoulders drop, hurt. He didn't mean to make Patrick feel like that. He’s only looking out for Patrick's well-being. But still, when he looks at the bright side, they're talking again. Talking and _talking it out._ “I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was doing it. I'm sorry you feel like that.”

“S’fine.” Patrick shrugs, now slumped and downcast, poking at the toast on his plate. “Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.” He promises before pausing in hopes that Patrick will continue talking again and not letting the silence win for the umpteenth time.

Moments pass, and his hopes remain hopes. A wishful thinking.

The silence wins again, mopping up the floor with him.

-

Even though his friends are over at his house, splashing around in the pool under the sun and laughing with cold drinks in their hands, he can’t seem to bring himself to have half as much fun as his friends are having. His mind is clouded with Patrick, his worries about Patrick.

He’s not going to lie, thinking about Patrick puts a damp in his mood lately. It’s like one thought of him uses up all his mental and physical energy, and by afternoon, he’s too burned out to write any music.

But it’s going to pass, he’s sure of it. They’ve overcome a lot of problems before, and this is just another one of them. Hopefully.

He knows things are only going south, and he’s running out of ways to pull Patrick back from the void he’s trapped in. He’s just standing there from the outside, frozen and helpless as Patrick is slowly being engulfed by his own shadow. Slowly losing himself.

“What’s with the long face?”

He looks up from his drink, eyes squinting at the bright sun, and attempts to smile against the heavy tug of the corner of his lips. “Spence.”

Spencer pushes his legs out of the way before sitting down, his face etched with concern. “What’s up? You seem out of it lately.”

A bitter chuckle escapes him. It’s like deja vu all over again. He remembers having this conversation with Zack back at New York.

He never would have thought that he’d be having this conversation again. Especially with his best friend.

“Is this about Patrick?”

He leans back against the lawn chair, one arm pillowing his head, and closes his eyes, half to block out the sun, the other half to avoid looking at Spencer and his expression. “Is it that obvious?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Spencer shrugs. “How is he anyway?”

He stays silent for a second, picking over his words carefully, because with how long they’ve known each other, Spencer can call his bullshit in under one tenth of a second. “We talk.”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that his friend is giving him an exasperated look.

“You talk.” Spencer repeats after him, his voice flat. “Brendon, _my mom_ _and I_ talk. My sister and her daughter _talk._ ”

He shrugs. “We’ve just been busy with our music lately.”

“Okay, let’s just--”

“Spencer, we’re fine.” He cuts Spencer off before his friend can continue further. He appreciates Spencer’s concern, really, but right now, he doesn’t need any. It only makes his stomach twist and churn. Makes him realize that he and Patrick, in fact, _do have a problem._

Makes him forced to acknowledge the fact that their relationship now is on a shaky ground.

“Brendon--”

His throat produces a deep sound before he stands up with a grunt and walks away from the pool and into his house.

He doesn’t want to hear anything about their relationship.

-

Patrick is already asleep when he comes back up to the bedroom from his studio in the basement, or at least, he thinks Patrick is. Ever since he found Patrick in the guest room crying in the middle of the night, it’s like his brain has rewired itself to stay awake until past midnight to make sure Patrick is sleeping.

And he hasn’t been getting enough sleep because of it. Neither has Patrick, because just as he closes his eyes at two in the morning to sleep, Patrick shifts in bed; although he doesn’t get out of bed, Patrick just lies there, staring at the ceiling until one of their alarm rings in the morning. Until he rolls out of bed. Then Patrick pretends he’s asleep until it’s his time to ‘wake up’.

And then comes the breakfast and the pills, where they both pretend they’re busy in their own studios when in reality, they’re both only avoiding each other until it’s time for them to sleep.

It’s a silent, vicious cycle, but one that he doesn’t dare to break. It scares him that he’s actually getting used to it. Getting used to not talking to Patrick. Getting used to not holding him at night.

Getting used to not being intimate.

He takes a quick shower to get rid of the smell on his own body before settling on the bed, placing a careful distance between them. He had been smoking again in his studio, but that’s nothing new. What’s new is that maybe he went just a _little_ bit off from what he’s supposed to. Maybe he took just a _little_ bit much, but no one needs to know. Patrick certainly doesn’t. It doesn’t harm either of them anyway, and it helps him to forget the world for a while.

And besides, Fall Out Boy just dropped their new song an hour ago, and he couldn’t-- _can’t--_ stop playing it on his phone and in his mind. Patrick’s voice haunts him, and together with the lyrics, when he closes his eyes, he can easily imagine Patrick saying the words to him. Patrick talking to him.

_“I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you, but not as much as I do.”_

He wishes it was true, that Patrick needs him just as much as he needed Patrick when Panic split and when he was in Hawaii a couple of weeks back, but a lyric is just a lyric, and a line is just a line.

Because judging from what’s been happening between them, Patrick certainly doesn’t seem to need him.

-

The ache, or rather, the hole in his chest grows larger and deeper whenever he watches Patrick perform on television. He has always loved seeing Patrick on stage; he looks genuine and passionate and _himself._ He looks like Patrick _Stumph_ , a 33 year old man from Chicago who loves music and has a heart as big and as warm as the sun, not just Patrick _Stump,_ the vocalist for Fall Out Boy.

It saddens him that he only gets to see a glimpse of the real Patrick _Stumph_ from the television and not around the house they live _together_ in. He might as well just watch Patrick from afar, considering that he feels closer to Patrick the farther they’re apart.

Patrick’s smiling on the screen, singing and bouncing around on the stage and looking so _normal._ The fans don’t even know what’s going on behind closed doors, so does it only happen to him? Is Patrick acting cold and distant only around him?

...is it him? Did he do something wrong to Patrick? Or was it something he said?

Does Patrick have had enough of him? Is he getting tired of him?

When the band starts to play a different song, he turns off the television, not willing to put himself through another heartbreak knowing that he will probably never see Patrick’s smile around the house. Around him.

He switches off all the lights in the living room before entering the kitchen to grab a drink and retire for the night. He pulls out a bottled water from the fridge and swallows three large gulps, and when he moves past the counter, he sees a neon orange bottle sitting in the vicinity of his vision.

He holds the plastic item in his hand, eyes fixed on the label.

_PATRICK STUMPH_

_ADDERALL XR_

_TAKE 1 CAPSULE EVERY MORNING_

Patrick must be having a field day; his med is right here on top of their kitchen counter in LA while he’s all the way across the country in Chicago.

-

It’s a weird coping mechanism, the weirdest by far, but it actually helps. Going live on Instagram and smoking make his problems disappear as his mind focuses solely on interacting with his fans and getting high. The two actions are a dangerous combination; he could have slipped something about their relationship before he even knows it.

But he’s doing great so far, and his fans entertain him, minus the ones that tell him to kill himself, but he’s too high out of his mind to take offense to it.

He throws his head back, gazing up at the ceiling and blowing out a steady stream of smoke. Patrick’s coming back tomorrow. Will things change for the better this time around?

Or will it remain the same?

Whatever the answer is, he knows weed isn’t going to be enough for him to get through it.

-

He’s not surprised anymore, to be honest. Patrick’s quiet during breakfast and playing with his food, making it seem like he eat them when in reality, he’s just shuffling the food around.

He drops his gaze to his own plate from Patrick’s. He hates to admit it but he’s actually starting to feel defeated and give up. His body warms with shame and anger at himself. He shouldn’t even be thinking about giving up in the first place. This is _Patrick._ Does he really want to throw away everything they’ve had for the past decade just because… just because Patrick won’t talk to him? Because he won’t talk to Patrick? Because they won’t talk to each other?

He closes his eyes with a silent sigh as he pushes his plate away. Great, there goes his mood and appetite for the day. The sound of a wooden stool scraping against the floor makes him open his eyes.

Patrick is smoothing his shirt and picking up his hat, eyes on anywhere but him.

With the prescription bottle now in his hand, he takes out a pill and hands it to Patrick, expecting him to take it like before, but that’s not what’s happening.

“No.”

His forehead creases at Patrick’s defiance. He frowns, matching Patrick, and gestures for him to take it. “Patrick.”

Patrick, however, doesn’t back down. He keeps his chin up high with narrowed eyes. “Why do I have to take medications?”

“Because you're prescribed to it.” He says slowly, keeping his voice gentle, because the atmosphere feels as if it were going to combust any second. “Patrick, please take your pill.”

“Why not you? You have ADHD too, don't you? Why do I have to take pills for it and you don't?”

His mouth falls agape at the barrage of questions coming from Patrick. His core turns cold as Patrick continues to speak. This is bad. Patrick is rarely impulsive--he’s mostly the restless type--so this… this is impulsive Patrick talking. Impulsive Patrick who speaks whatever’s in his mind without filtering them. _Without thinking them through._

“Is it because I'm bad at controlling it? Is that why I have to take pills? Is that why you don't? Is that why you smoke? Because pills are too good for--”

 _“Patrick.”_ His voice cracks, trying to stop Patrick--his dear boyfriend of _ten_ years, _the love of his life--_ from continuing further. Patrick has _never_ attacked him, especially not because of his ADHD. _Especially_ not because of him smoking.

Patrick stops, his eyes wide and mouth falling open as if he just realized what he has done. “I- I'm sorry. Brendon, I--”

His body goes tense without him meaning to when Patrick steps forward, reaching out for his arm. The reaction is only short, a split of a second, but not short enough for Patrick to miss it, because Patrick immediately retracts his hand and takes a step back.

Seeing the glaze in Patrick’s eyes and how fast his chest is heaving up and down, he steps closer to Patrick to soothe him, assure him that _it’s okay, he didn’t mean it,_ but right when he opens his mouth, Patrick has already grabbed the pill from his hand and spun on his heels, speeding out of the kitchen without a word.

He rests his elbows on the counter and drops his head in his hands, fingers tugging at the roots of his hair in frustration. Honestly, he doesn't know what's worse: Patrick not talking to him, or Patrick talking to him. Things aren’t supposed to be like this; it’s like Patrick hasn’t changed after he got his medications back in his system.

Sighing, he moves to pick up Patrick’s plate, but when he turns his head slightly to the left, he notices Patrick’s phone lying around on the counter. He grabs it and makes his way to Patrick before Patrick leaves.

Only, the moment he opens the door, he wishes he’d left the phone on the table, because he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

He can’t believe Patrick just _spat out_ the pill that he just took.

His chest constricts as Patrick gets into his car, and he closes the door quietly so Patrick doesn’t see him. After Patrick pulls out of the driveway, he opens the door again, walking over to where Patrick just spat. He's surprised at what he finds, but at the same time he's also not when he sees a bunch of pills scattered on the ground, some crushed flat and some scuffed into the soil.

His body sags in front of their house as air leaves his body in one long, tired sigh.

_“You can’t force people who doesn’t want help to get help.”_

He feels like a fool for not heeding Spencer's words and believing that he can actually help Patrick on his own.

-

He hopes things wouldn’t have to come down to this. He hopes Patrick would come to his senses first, or maybe he would get to Patrick before anything else could, but in all honesty, after what he witnessed that morning, it’s time for him to stop being delusional and start accepting the reality: they are not fine, and their relationship may have just hit rock bottom.

It sounds stupid, though. They’re in their _thirties,_ for fuck’s sake. They shouldn’t even be having problems. They should be able to talk like two _mature adults,_ but they _didn’t._ Patrick keeps everything inside, he keeps quiet, and the silence is the only thing keeping them together, and now that everything’s crumbling down right in front of his eyes, he can’t sit around and be quiet any longer.

He had talked to Pete about it, and he was relieved Pete shared the same thoughts. It helped that Pete had also talked to Joe and Andy about it, so now, everything is in his hands. He knows the guys have his back, but _everything_ will fall on him if it goes wrong.

If the fans find out.

He looks up from his tightly clenched fist when the front door creaks open, Patrick walking in a second later. He lets out a breath. There’s no more waiting. He’s shrugged off the issue long enough. “Patrick, sit down.”

Patrick glances at him from over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in suspicion, but follows his order. He takes a sit on the nearest couch. “What is it?”

He holds his gaze steady with Patrick, though his heart rate is starting to pick up. This is the right thing to do. He’s been thinking about it since morning, weighing the pros and cons. There’s a lot that can go wrong with what he’s about to do, but when he thinks of the effects in long term, it will be worth it.

Patrick will be happy and healthy again. Their relationship will be rekindled, back to how they used to be.

And this whole thing will just be another bump in their ten-year road. Hopefully.

“I think you should hold off the Mania tour.”

“What?” Patrick tenses, hand gripping the edge of the armrest.

“You’re not--” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes briefly before looking at Patrick straight in the eye. There’s no sugar-coating around anymore. “Patrick, you’re not well.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not well.” He repeats with the same tone. He tries to keep the atmosphere calm so he can control it when things get out of hand, especially when Patrick seems to be red in the face and shaking in his seat. “You haven’t for a while now. How long have you stopped taking your meds? And don’t lie,” he adds, “I saw you spat it out outside the house.”

Patrick rises up to his full height, jaws tightened in anger. “So what? Maybe I don’t want to take them anymore! Maybe I don’t want to depend on them like I’m some kind of-- some kind of sick person! I’m fine without the pills!”

“Patrick.” He warns, fists clenching and unclenching. One of them usually has to stay level-headed when they’re fighting, and it’s usually Patrick since he’s the more rational one between the two of them. But since Patrick is not quite in the right state of mind, the role now lands on him, and he’s having a hard time keeping his head cool. “Calm down. You don’t have to yell.”

“Because if I don’t, you won’t listen to me! You don't even try to understand!”

“Then make me.” He pleads, his voice desperate because he’s running out of options, running out of ways to understand him, to _help_ him. He _needs_ Patrick to reach his hand out so he can help. “Make me understand so I can help, so we can go back to how we were and put all this behind us.”

Patrick crosses his arms against his chest and averts his gaze, keeping his lips pressed into a thin line. With the way his throat is bobbing, he seems to be holding back his sobs, and it crushes him that Patrick _still_ has his guard up around him.

“Patrick, please. I miss you. I miss _us.”_ He murmurs, fingers uncurling as his arms now fall limp against his sides. His skin feels fire hot and ice cold at the same time, and he just wants to stop time so he can get under the sheets, hold Patrick close to him and for _one_ second, pretend that everything’s fine again.

Patrick blinks rapidly as if to get rid of the tears that have begun to glaze his eyes, and he turns around with his back facing him. When he speaks, his voice is tight with all the effort to keep everything together with just a thread. “I’m right here.”

“It feels like I’ve been living with a stranger.” He confesses, closing his eyes in defeat and shame; he’s not supposed to be feeling this way.

“I’m still the same.” Patrick eventually whispers after a moment of silence, his head downcast.

When he opens his eyes, he can feel the burn and the prickles behind them, but he takes a deep breath, keeping himself composed. Keeping himself strong. “Then why do I feel like I don’t know you anymore? We barely speak, and every time you got back from the studio, you went straight to bed.

“Do you know when I feel the closest to you? Night, in bed, when you’re sleeping. Wanna know why?” Heavy lump begins to form in his throat, and he’s having a little difficulty to continue talking, but he presses ahead. “Because for once, I’m _right next to you.”_

“Don’t you trust me?” His voice completely cracks when Patrick doesn’t seem to give any reaction.

“Of course I do.”

Patrick still hasn’t turned around to face him, and he desperately wishes Patrick would so he can see what Patrick’s feeling. Right now, it feels like his heart is the only one that’s breaking. “Then, _please_ talk to me. I’m tired, Patrick, I don’t know what else is there to do.”

His throat tightens. “Patrick, please. I can't do this anymore.”

“Then leave.”

His heart drops. He can't be hearing that right, right? “What?”

“Leave.” Patrick whispers, but he hears his word loud and clear. His stomach coils into a tight little spring that might just expulse everything out. “If you’re tired of me, just leave. I won’t stop you.”

For a moment, time stands still. The wind blowing outside stops. The leaves rustling pause midway. The sound of vehicles moving out and about becomes silent.

He's tired. He thought he can handle it, but the truth is, he doesn't think he can anymore. He's tried everything, but Patrick won't even meet him halfway.

He sits down on the couch, taking a few slow and deep breaths before running a hand down his face. “Do you want me to leave that badly?”

He lifts his head up to look at Patrick, but the man is hugging his own body tight, and his shoulders are shaking when he looks closer. One thing is clear in this situation; neither of them are in the right minds to make any decision, so he takes the last step before either of them says something that they might regret in the future.

He stands up from the couch and strides over to Patrick, turning him around and holding him by the arms tight. His stomach twists at Patrick’s wet and bloodshot eyes. He slides his hands upwards and cups Patrick’s face.

“Patrick. Listen. I love you, okay? So I’m going to go out, buy dinner for us, and when I get back, we’ll talk about this.” It has been weeks, maybe even months, but he finally leans down and kisses Patrick, soft and passionate and heartwreching that fixes him and breaks him at the same time. When he pulls away, both of them panting, he rests his forehead against Patrick’s and wipes the dried track of tears on Patrick’s cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be back later. I love you.”

He presses another kiss against Patrick’s mouth and moves to grab his car key and wallet before leaving the house. He doesn’t really have a destination in mind. All he knows is that both of them need some time for themselves, and that’s what he did. He’s giving them around an hour plus to think over what just happened, and hopefully, they get to _really_ talk this time around. And have dinner while they’re at it, if he’s lucky.

Even though they’re in LA, he knows just where to get Patrick’s favorite Chicago-style pizza. Tonight has been undoubtedly one of the most emotional one night they’ve ever had, and maybe Patrick’s favorite food is just what they need to unwind.

He arrives back home around an hour later; he bought some sodas and fries and burgers along the way.  Although, Patrick’s car isn’t in the driveway. Then again, whenever they had an argument, Patrick would always cool off somewhere in his car, so he’s probably on his way home right about now.

He places all the food and drinks on the kitchen counter before making his way to the bathroom for a quick shower. He’s feeling a little bit better now, all emotions under control, and a nice, cold shower will help him feel more refreshed. That way, when they talk, he may just understand Patrick’s going to say.

Once he finishes showering, he steps out back into their bedroom and heads for the closet for a clean shirt. When he opens the closet door, all color drains from his face.

Almost half of the clothes are gone. More specifically, _Patrick’s clothes._

Blood begins to pound in his ears.

_No._

He pulls on a random shirt and grabs his phone, pulling up Patrick’s number as he runs to check every room.

_He didn’t._

The door slams against the wall with the force he’s using, almost ripping it off its hinges, but he can’t be bothered to give a fuck. He dashes down to his studio in the basement, all the while cursing at his phone.

_“If you’re tired of me, just leave.”_

His studio is empty, just the way he left it last time, and that’s when his phone ends the call that doesn’t make it through. Patrick has his phone off.

_“I won’t stop you.”_

His knees begin to tremble, and he sits down on the couch, eyes wide as the first drop of tear finally makes its way down his face.

_“If you feel like things are changing, I promise you we won’t. My feelings won’t.”_

**Author's Note:**

> ...there's at _least_ three of you who are going to kill me for that ending. but here's a more reason for you to kill me anyway :)
> 
> i got a job! and i'm starting this monday, so... uh, i don't know when i'll be able to update the next part haha 
> 
> don't forget to leave comments and kudos :)


End file.
